The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘I have it.’ And I touch my forehead.

  He smiles, then screws the piece of paper up and throws it away.

  ‘How do I get in there?’ I ask.

  ‘You don’t. No one does. Unless they’re authorised.’

  ‘So I get authorised.’

  He laughs, a laughter that rolls on and on and on. ‘You are so funny, Otto. So very, very amusing.’

  102

  Heinrich sees us home. I can sense he’s not happy. He’s still polite, but now he’s monosyllabic in his responses to my questions, and when I ask when we’ll see him again, he simply shrugs. I don’t understand his sudden change of mood, but it doesn’t matter. I have what I need. All I have to do now is find a way in.

  Burckel wants to talk; wants to chew it all over and make plans. But I’ve already made my own plans, and I tell him so.

  ‘But Otto …’

  ‘No. You stay here. Until I get back. If I get in trouble I’ll jump.’

  He’s unhappy, but he does as I say. Leaving him there, I return to the gaming club. It’s mid-morning now, and most of the population are at work, but there are a scattering of people in Van Richtofen Strasse. All seems normal, until I step into the side alley and see, where the Club Rothaarige should be, a smouldering ruin. The place is cordoned off, visored SS officers – State Security – standing in the alley talking.

  I stare for a time, pretending to be a curious bystander, and in a moment am moved on, but my heart is hammering in my chest.

  What happened here? Was it gang related? Or was it an attempt on the Guildsman’s life? If so, was it successful? And what about Dankevich?

  I decide to jump back. To find out just what went on after I’d left the club. But first I decide to go back and tell Burckel what’s going on.

  Only Burckel’s not there. He’s gone AWOL again. I curse him, then, because time is of the essence, I jump back.

  Hecht is waiting there, like he’s expecting me. And maybe he is. We are time travellers, after all. Yet for once it seems strange.

  ‘Trouble, Otto?’

  ‘They burned down the club.’

  ‘I know.’

  You know?’

  ‘It’s in the histories. Only a footnote, admittedly, but …’

  ‘Ah.’

  This is the part I don’t like. The thought that Hecht knows more than I about the situation. It makes me feel exposed.

  ‘I was going to …’

  He interrupts. ‘Otto. I want to show you something.’

  And so we jump. Back to the clearing. Only the clearing is no longer clear. There are makeshift tents among the surrounding trees – crude bivouacs – and there, about Ernst’s glowing form, a dozen or more pilgrims kneel, praying to him.

  I shake my head, astonished, then look to Hecht, speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the pilgrims.

  ‘How much time has passed?’

  ‘A week subjective.’

  ‘Urd save him. And he’s conscious?’

  ‘We’re not sure. But if he is …’

  It’s a dreadful thought. One of the kneeling party notices us and, with a bow to Ernst, breaks away from his prayers and comes across.

  ‘Sires,’ he says, in that ancient, heavily slurred Russian that they speak in these parts. ‘Have you come to make offerings to the angel?’

  He’s relatively young, but his hair is long and his beard thick, and he gives off the air of a priest. His clothes however are rough, undyed, and he smells like an unwashed peasant.

  Hecht stares at the young man a moment, then brushes him aside with the disdain of an aristocrat. What’s more, it works. The young man, noting our manner, backs off, bowed low, like he’s in the presence of a great lord.

  I turn, looking across at our trapped ‘angel’.

  Seen close, I note how much clearer Ernst now is. One cannot touch him, however. The air surrounding him crackles with static and I can see from the dark, burned patches on the ground nearby that those that have tried have been badly shocked for their pains.

  ‘There,’ Hecht says, indicating what appears to be a lump on Ernst’s left hip.

  I look closer, feeling the hair bristle on my head as it’s drawn towards the field.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We think it’s what’s generating the field. We scanned him, a few days back, and that seems to be one end of the anchor.’

  The lump is small and fleshy – no bigger than a largish coin – yet it seems to sit beneath the surface of his skin.

  ‘It’s made of his own DNA, of course. That’s why it’s taken hold so firmly. We can’t cut it out. We tried and almost lost a man doing so. But if we could switch off the power …’

  ‘I have a map,’ I say. ‘I know where it is.’

  ‘Good.’ And Hecht looks to me and smiles. But it’s quickly gone, even as he turns back and looks at Ernst. In its place I see a great compassion fill Hecht’s eyes.

  ‘You mustn’t fail, Otto,’ he says. ‘This time you must succeed.’

  103

  I shower and change, then return to the platform, wondering all the while what Hecht meant by this time. Have I been before? Are we trying again and again until we somehow get it right? Or have I already failed? Am I stuck in a loop, forever repeating this futile succession of actions, forgetting what I’ve done each time, as the field about Ernst grows stronger and stronger?

  Only I don’t ask, and Hecht doesn’t offer. He isn’t even there to see me off.

  And so I go back again. Back to Burckel’s room. Back to Neu Berlin, my head full of Ernst and the burned-down club – and Katerina.

  Standing there, just before I make the jump, I wonder how I might persuade Zarah to send me there, to see Katerina briefly, to hold her and kiss her and tell her that I love her, only … how to ask? How to explain that, for me, seeing her is almost as urgent a need as freeing Ernst? As urgent as saving every last one of us, here at Four-Oh?

  How to ask, indeed. And so I find myself back in Burckel’s room, waiting on the man; wondering where he’s gone this time, and who he’s talking to. And while I sit there on the edge of his bed, I take a piece of paper and, from memory, begin to sketch her face, looking upward and to the right, her bright eyes shining with the morning light.

  Katerina.

  Finished, I fold the paper and place it in my inside tunic pocket, feeling now that I have at least some small part of her with me.

  Two hours pass, and I’m about to go out and start looking for him, when Burckel reappears.

  ‘Well?’ I ask, keeping my temper.

  ‘I had to deliver something. For Hecht …That package you brought with you.’

  I narrow my eyes. It seems he’s telling the truth. Only now he’s got me wondering why Hecht didn’t ask me to deliver it.

  ‘So where did you go?’

  He turns away, as if he’s looking about for something. ‘Oh, in the north city. I found the man …’

  I’m tense now. Strangely angry. ‘Man? What man?’

  He glances at me, almost unable to meet my eyes. ‘Otto, please. I can’t tell you. Hecht was very insistent. So don’t ask. You mustn’t ask.’

  It all seems very stupid, but I acquiesce. After all, Hecht must know what he’s doing. Mustn’t he?

  I squash the doubt even as it rises in my mind. The only thing I’ve got to worry about is getting to the power source and turning it off somehow. Nothing else matters. If Hecht is playing other games, then that’s not my concern, even if – this once – he chooses to exclude me from them.

  ‘Have you heard about the club?’ I ask, wondering if he, like Hecht, already knows.

  ‘No … what’s happened?’

  So I tell him, and see the genuine surprise in his eyes. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No. But I’d guess it has something to do with Dankevich and that Guildsman we saw. In fact, I’d bet a small fortune on it.’

  Burckel nods then turns away, once again seeming to be looking for
something.

  ‘Have you mislaid something, Albrecht?’

  ‘No, I … Ah, here it is.’

  I frown. ‘What is that?’

  He holds it up, the chain winking silver in the light, then slips it over his head.

  ‘It’s a charm,’ he says. ‘A lucky charm.’

  104

  We return to Van Richtofen Strasse. It’s mid-morning now, and the sky threatens rain. Burckel and I tour the bars nearest the club Das Rothaarige, asking questions of waitresses and barmen, trying to piece together what’s known. It’s not much but we get a clearer picture. Rumour is that the first alarm was sounded just after four. And then – and this everyone agrees on – there was an explosion.

  A bomb. It had to be a bomb.

  No one seems to know anything about casualties, however, and so we keep going, hoping to find someone who knows something a bit more specific. Here Burckel’s a help for once, for he seems to know most of the owners, and at a club some hundred metres or so from the ruins, we are brought drinks by a man named Meissner, whom Burckel seems to have known some years. With an air of secrecy, he tells us that he has a friend who’s got the inside track on what happened, and would we like to meet him?

  I hesitate, then nod, and, taking our drinks, we go through, into a back room. And there, sitting in a chair behind a desk, gun in hand, is our old friend Dankevich.

  As the door closes behind us, I see the anger burning in his eyes and realise we’ve made yet another mistake.

  ‘Sit down!’

  His voice is cold, no-nonsense. The gun is aimed at me, as if Burckel is of no consequence.

  ‘Andreas—’ Burckel begins, but Dankevich barks at him.

  ‘Shut up and sit!’

  There are two chairs, like we’ve both been expected. We sit.

  ‘Well?’ I ask. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘You were there,’ he says coldly. ‘You saw him. You knew he was there.’

  ‘Who?’ I say. But I know who he means. The Guildsman. And I know now that Dankevich was in the club when Burckel and I paid our visit, probably watching us on one of the club’s security cameras.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ he says, and the gun in his hand trembles, like his anger’s genuine. And maybe it is. Maybe he really doesn’t know who Burckel and I are. But that’s unlikely.

  ‘So what’s your angle?’ I ask. ‘Why are you so concerned?’

  ‘It was my club, that’s fucking why! My money. And now my fucking loss!’

  It’s a good act, only I know he’s a Russian agent, and any money he may or may not have put into the club was Russian money, not his.

  ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘Me?’ He looks puzzled. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘And the Guildsman?’

  ‘Dead. And eighteen others with him. The fucker used a sticky bomb. Placed it right dead centre on the Guildsman’s chest.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘How do you know all this? I thought the cameras were destroyed.’

  ‘They were. But there’s an external feed. We saw it all.’ He’s staring at me still, but there’s a slight question in his eyes now, as if he’s not quite as sure of me as he first thought.

  ‘And the assassin?’

  ‘Dead. When the bomb went off he was only a metre or so away.’

  ‘But you got a good look at him?’

  ‘No. The fucker was masked.’

  ‘Ah …’ And I wonder if our friend Reichenau was involved. One of his men, maybe. ‘All right …but why are you so pissed off with me?’

  ‘Because you were there earlier. Your first visit. A bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘That’s because it was.’

  ‘So you say. But I’m afraid you’re under suspicion. The Guild are furious. They want answers, and fast. If you hadn’t come here …’

  Too late, I realise what he’s done. Nor can I jump, because then Burckel will have to jump, too, and our operation here will be completely blown. That is, if it isn’t already. But Dankevich is acting as if he really doesn’t know who we are. As I stand and turn to the door, so it flies open and two SS men, heavy snub-nosed automatics in their hands, block the way.

  ‘I’m sorry, Albrecht,’ Dankevich says. ‘But if I hadn’t handed you in, they would have come for you anyway.’

  The apology is unexpected – and it makes me glance back at him. But then we’re grabbed and cuffed and half pushed, half carried out to the cruiser which is waiting in the broad avenue outside, hovering a foot above the ground, all black metal plate and bristling guns.

  Burckel looks sick, but I’m not about to let these bastards take us in and torture us, and as the cruiser lifts and banks, so I jump and jump back almost instantly, artillery in hand, and open fire, taking out both the guards and another four of their companions, including the pilot. One of them manages to fire a shot off, however, and suddenly Burckel’s squealing like a stuck pig. As the cruiser dips towards the ground, Freisler appears from nowhere in the co-pilot’s seat and, taking the controls, keeps the flyer steady until I can see to Burckel. It takes a moment to stop the bleeding; then I go forward to join Freisler in the cockpit.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, hauling the dead pilot out of his seat and clambering in, getting the feel of the joystick.

  Freisler nods … then vanishes.

  105

  We dump the cruiser in wasteland to the south of the city. There I jump back to Four-Oh and return an instant later with a proper medical kit to patch Burckel up. It’s his leg. The bone is smashed, but I can deal with that. I dose him up and put the limb in a walking cast, its neuro-transmitters by-passing the nerve-ends in the shattered leg, its artificial muscles allowing Burckel to walk while the bone heals.

  We make our way by foot to the nearest terminus. Burckel’s convinced there’ll be a full-scale alert out for us, so we try to avoid all checkpoints and security cameras, only in this world you can’t scratch your arse without a camera looking on.

  I’m tempted to go back and change things, to jump in down the line and sort this mess out at the source, only Hecht was keen that I didn’t meddle, and what Hecht says goes.

  The priority now is to find a hidey-hole. Somewhere to stay for the next day or two. I suggest contacting Reichenau’s man Heinrich, and Burckel makes the call, only our friendly terrorists don’t want to know. They cut us dead, like they’re afraid to know us.

  I’m at a loss, but Burckel has the answer.

  ‘Werner. We can stay with Werner. He’ll look after us.’

  I’m not so sure, but as I know no one else in this world, I go along with him. Burckel makes another call and, half an hour later, a bright red flyer descends nearby and Werner leans out, beckoning us across. It’s not as plush, nor as powerful as the Steuermann-L8, but I’m surprised that Werner owns one at all. He’s alone in the flyer, no sign of his two goons. Once we’re strapped in the back he asks us what happened, and for once I let Burckel do the talking.

  ‘You shot them?’ he asks me, amazed. ‘How the fuck did you manage that? I thought you were cuffed?’

  ‘A trick I learned,’ I say. ‘But thanks. For this …’

  ‘Shit. Don’t thank me. Anyone who whacks one of those bastards …’

  I’m about to say that I didn’t, only Burckel lays his hand on my arm and I keep quiet.

  Werner’s ‘place’ is a big penthouse studio on the eastern side of the city. He sets the flyer down on a pad, then hurries us inside.

  The apartment is the very height of luxury. I look about me, impressed. Werner is a far bigger man than I thought. ‘Where are your friends?’

  ‘I sent them away for a couple of days,’ he answers, pouring us drinks. ‘I thought it best.’

  His smile is kindly, unthreatening, and I begin to wonder whether my earlier judgement of him was too hasty.

  ‘I’ve some business to do,’ he says, ‘so I’ll be gone for three or four hours, but you’ll be safe here.’

>   I look up and find he’s holding something out for me to take. It’s a gun. A large calibre automatic, with laser sights.

  ‘Just in case,’ he says and smiles. ‘I don’t think anyone followed me, but you never know.’

  I nod, and smile back at him gratefully. ‘Thanks. You don’t know how much this means.’

  And that’s true. Germany owes a debt to ‘Werner’. That is, if we survive the next two nights.

  When Werner’s gone, I see to Burckel, checking his wound, then dose him up again. I want to give him something stronger – something to put him out, to let him rest so that his body will heal faster – but he won’t let me. He wants to keep awake. He wants to talk. And so, finally, I let him, taking a seat by the window, looking out across the city, the gun across my lap, as, sprawled out on the couch nearby, Burckel tells me how it’s been, here in 2747.

  ‘This is a cold place, Otto. A frightening place, at times. No place to raise a family, if you know what I mean. Not that we two have much sense of family, eh? Not in the traditional sense.’

  ‘We are a people …’

  ‘I know, but sometimes, well, I miss the more intimate stuff … you know, being a father, having children … that kind of thing.’

  ‘Not the sex, then?’

  ‘No. Strangely enough I don’t miss the sex. I never liked being part of the programme. You know, servicing the Frau …’

  I look away, before he sees the agreement in my eyes.

  ‘Anyway,’ he goes on, ‘even if I could, there’d be no point in this world. These people live in constant fear.’

  I look to him, querying that.

  ‘The fortress has the power of life or death over all,’ he says, ‘and it chooses its servants, well, let us say arbitrarily. Who knows on what criteria the choice is made. All that anyone knows is that at any time – day or night – the King’s men might call and take a child, any child they wish, and take it back to the fortress to be changed, turned into one of the do-hu, the domesticated humans that serve the Masters. Nor is there any right of appeal. All here are the property of the fortress.’

  I know, yet to hear Burckel say it so clearly – and with such bitterness – makes me see it anew.